Highland Wrath

by Madeline Martin

  Half his left ear.

  Sylvi’s blood went cold. “What did you say?”

  The man squinted his eyes up at her. “He’s handsome?”

  She pulled the blade back and shoved the heel of her hand into his throat instead. “The other part.”

  “Short. Fat.” His speech vibrated in his throat beneath her hand. “Missing a couple teeth.”

  “The other part,” she ground out. She pushed harder with her hand.

  When he spoke, his voice came out strangled, but she heard it well enough. “He’s missing half his left ear.”

  • • •

  Ian Campbell stared up at the woman who evidently wanted him dead.

  No, she had most likely been paid to kill him. Doubtless it was Reginald who wanted his death. The bastard. Ian should have killed him when he’d had the chance. It was obvious Reginald’s band of men were still sore about how they’d parted ways. Ian had expected the mercenaries to find him and try to kill him. After all, several others had been sent before—none of them successful, of course.

  Perhaps they assumed he would not suspect a woman.

  “Who is this Reginald?” she asked. “How do you know him? Where can I find him?” The woman pressed harder on his throat.

  She was a skilled fighter, even though her moves were dirty. His bollocks still ached where they’d been knocked under the brutality of her slender foot. But she wasn’t very smart if she thought he could speak through a crushed throat.

  He loosed one of the hands cradling his offended manhood and jerked a finger at his throat.

  She eased the pressure. A bit.

  A caring lass, this one.

  “I thought ye knew him.” The words rasped out of his throat and brought on the urge to cough. But coughing would make his stones hurt worse than they already did. He swallowed thickly, easing away the rough need to clear the ache. “Are ye no’ working with him?”

  “Why the hell would I be working with a man like him?” She shoved her hand harder into his throat again. God, the lass must be made of iron.

  In a swift move, he caught her wrist, twisted, and flipped her onto her back.

  Her hair was white in the moonlight, but her face was young. A very fair blonde, then perhaps. Pale eyes glared up at him with resolve from an angular face and broad forehead. Her mouth stretched into a hard, determined line, but he could see the sensual line of a cherub’s bow shape.

  Ian Campbell knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, and his would-be assassin was definitely … well … pretty. Even if she was mad as a cat caught in a Highland storm.

  “I canna talk with yer hand in my throat,” he ground out.

  “Who is the man with half an ear?” Evidently she was going to ignore his pointing out her oversight on basic anatomy.

  “A man who makes bad choices.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Because I make bad choices.” It was true. Running with those jackanapes was one of the worst of his life decisions. And now they were all after him.

  So much for a fresh start on life. He should have known it would not be so easy.

  “Why does he want you dead?”

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  “I can see why.” She glared at him. “Do you think you’re amusing?”

  Her anger was evident in the darkening of her cheeks and the stiffening of her body.

  He couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips. “Entertaining, aye. Amusing, perhaps.”

  Now he was just being humble.

  A dagger jerked up to his hand, the blade cool where it rested near the heel of his thumb.

  “One scratch from this and you’ll draw your last breath.”

  “I canna speak if I canna breathe.” He managed to level his stare at her. “And ye have more questions.”

  He set his sword aside and held up his free hand, palm facing her in surrender. “I propose we set aside our weapons and talk like gentlem—er, civilized people.”

  She slid the dagger into the belt at her waist. “I don’t need a dagger to kill you.”

  “And no more kicking either, aye? I’d like to have sons someday.”

  He thrust a hand down to help her rise, but she ignored the offer and leapt gracefully to her feet.

  Really looking at her now, there was very little about her that appeared civilized or ladylike. Her pale hair had been braided back from her face and tied behind her head in a thick mass. She wore a man’s black léine and breeches, as well as a small belt around her waist with various pockets and sheaths affixed to it.

  “Do you know where the man with half an ear is?” she asked.

  “His name is Reginald. He’s head of a band of dangerous mercenaries.”

  She gave a hiss of disgust and paced across the room. At second glance, he found he rather liked breeches on a woman. The fabric hugged the curve of her round arse, and he could discern the shapely lines of her slender legs beneath the fitted cloth.

  She turned and eyed him as if she knew what he’d been thinking. And might cut his cock off for having thought it.

  “No man with half an ear came to me,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

  Ian didn’t doubt that a lick. “Describe the man who came to ye to hire ye.”

  “Tall, lanky, long silver and black hair split down the middle and tucked behind his ears.” She paused with obvious thought. “There’s a scar just under his eye and one on his jaw.”

  “Large ears?” he pressed.

  The woman tilted her head in consideration. “They weren’t small.”

  Ian scoffed. Figures it’d be Gregor handling Reginald’s business. He was the cruelest of all. “Aye, I know him,” Ian said. “His name’s Gregor, and he does indeed work with Reginald.”

  On second look, he couldn’t help but notice how the subtle swell beneath her léine hinted at the bosom beneath. Were her breasts bound or loose within?

  She bent down and put her eyes where her chest had been. “Do you know where Reginald is?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’ve no’ ever seen a lass dressed like ye are. Ye wear it well.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Your flattery is unnecessary.”

  “Ye still look verra nice in it.”

  She slid him a warning glance.

  So much for earning a smile of appreciation.

  In fact, her expression went hard with concentration. “I need to find where they’re staying. And you need to get these men to leave you alone. There’s only one way all that can happen.” She slid the dagger from her belt and studied it carefully before returning her pale stare to him. “I’m going to have to kill you.”

  Chapter 2

  Ian stared at the mad woman who dressed like a man. Like a killer.

  Although his attire was of finer quality than hers, the long léine without his kilt belted around him was a sad thing indeed, making him look as if he wore a lass’s nightclothes.

  “If I’m dead, this plan willna help me.”

  She flicked a length of her white hair over her shoulder in a short, irritable motion. Only then did he notice she wore a black silk ribbon tied around her slender throat, just feminine enough to look almost ridiculous on her.

  Almost as ridiculous as him in nightclothes.

  She huffed out a sigh. “I’m supposed to leave your body on the outskirts of town. I can take your body there, collect the coins they owe me, and follow them when they take you wherever they intend to take you.”

  Ian eyed his surrendered sword on the ground beside him. “I’m still failing to see how this might help me.”

  The woman followed his gaze toward his weapon, but she didn’t move. Not to tense for an attack, nor did she move closer to guard him. She was confident in her skills. More so than most men. And that made her a frightening opponent.

  “You wouldn’t actually die.” She spoke to him as if he were a c
hild. “It’s a forged death.”

  “A forged death.” He nodded slowly and then eyed her warily. “Explain if ye will, how does a ‘forged’ death work to the point of being convincing, and more importantly, no’ killing me?”

  Despite what her answer would be, the twist to his gut told him this plan would not be good.

  For him, at least.

  She indicated the dagger she held. “This is poisoned. One scratch will immediately put you into a state of very deep sleep. So deep, you will appear dead. It would eventually lead to certain death within three hours.” Her gaze swept over his body, much as his had done over hers earlier. “Most likely four for you, since you’re bigger than most, but I wouldn’t want to push it past three and a half to be certain.”

  He couldn’t help the cocky grin. “Well, ye know how to flatter a man into interest.”

  “I’m discussing measurements for preventing your death, not issuing a compliment.” She unlatched a pocket of her belt and pulled out a slim vial full of clear liquid. “This is what will save you. It’s a counterbalance to the poison in the dagger.”

  He eyed the liquid in the vial. It looked like water to him, and everyone knew water was dangerous to drink.

  “Does it work?” He reached for it, but the woman closed her fingers over the glass and tucked it back in her belt.

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s been tried before.”

  She busied herself with her belt. It was extraordinary. Many pouches, sturdy, room for several weapons.

  Then he realized she still had not spoken. She hadn’t confirmed.

  “It hasna been tried before, has it?”

  She looked up and her expression turned pensive. “No. But I trust the woman who created it with my life.”

  “But it isna yer life,” he pointed out. “It’s mine.”

  “Then you have my word I’ll keep you safe.” Her face was open in a way he wanted to trust.

  He’d been trying to run from the bastards for several months. Ever since he’d rebelled against them when they attempted to rape a woman. They hadn’t appreciated his defense of her and had their bollocks in a knot over it ever since. He’d saved the woman, but it had won him some enemies. Dangerous ones.

  And to think he’d only been trying to escape his old life with a new one. Now he was always running, always looking behind his back.

  Still, it was better than being home. His gut twisted around the thought of Simon. Ian tried to push it from his mind, but the reminder rose painfully to the forefront of his mind.

  Nay, he couldn’t go home. There was no facing what he’d done. And the sooner he could get these men off his arse, the sooner he could find a new life. Maybe even find a way to somehow do a right to offset so much wrong.

  Home or death or … this—forged death and trusting a woman sent to kill him.

  Not good options to be sure.

  The cool metal of the blade touched his throat and pulled his thoughts from his futile options.

  “You don’t have many options.” The softness of the woman’s gaze had frosted over, leaving her stare hard and cold. “Either I kill you for good right now, or I give you my word to keep you safe and ensure you come out of this alive. I have been looking for these men for a long time, and I will not let you keep me from them.”

  The look in her eyes told him if he didn’t choose fast, the choice would be made for him. And not in his favor.

  “Verra well. I’ll let ye do it with my permission so long as ye keep me safe, but I require two more things.”

  She cocked her head in silent invitation for him to continue.

  He cleared his throat and eased back some from the blade. “First of all, I’d like to know the name of the person I’m conspiring with. I’m Ian Campbell.” He gave her his most charming grin. The lasses always loved that smile best.

  “Sylvi.”

  A lass of many words.

  Sylvi nodded at him. “What’s your second request?”

  He pointed to her waist. “I want one of those belts.”

  An unladylike snort came from her. “Very well. I’ll ensure you get one. Now get dressed. It’s impossibly cold outside.”

  She glanced out the window, where the night was beginning to lighten and glow deep blue with the onset of early dawn. “I have to meet them soon and will have to poison you here to make it look believable in case someone is watching me.”

  Ian’s heartbeat thumped faster. He wasn’t ready now. He wanted to fight against the woman and escape this bad situation, which had suddenly gotten worse. Even as he thought it, his hands worked to fasten his plaid around his waist and over his shoulder.

  It was one thing to fight and win. It was another altogether to fight and avoid being scratched by the wicked blade. At least this way he had her word he’d be safe.

  If she kept her word.

  He couldn’t think of that possibility now. Instead he gave a short nod and met her gaze. “Keep me safe, Sylvi.”

  She hesitated a brief moment before resting the dagger against his forearm. Her eyes narrowed with conviction. “I will.”

  “If ye dinna keep me safe … ” The blade pressed against his skin, and a line of blood welled up around the sharpened edge. “I’ll come back to haunt ye.”

  A thick fog welled around his mind and sucked him toward the lure of a dreamless, black nothing.

  His life was in the hands of a woman he’d just met, a woman who had come to kill him, no less. Of all the bad decisions he’d made in his eight and twenty years, this certainly was by far the worst.

  •••

  Time was precious, and Sylvi had just lost an hour.

  The men were late.

  Anxiety edged up her spine and left her body charged with restlessness. She was not often subject to the pressure of such nervousness and found she did not at all care for being so helpless in its grip.

  Her feet carried her in a back-and-forth pace in front of the large tree just outside of town, where she’d been told to meet the mercenaries. The air froze around her sigh in white fog in front of her face. Ian lay immobile in the thick blanket she’d wrapped him in. She’d been careful to ensure no part of his skin touched the frozen ground where he lay, and yet she could not help but worry at the cold.

  She’d been precipitous in her decision to poison Ian early. True, she hadn’t noticed signs of being watched, but he himself had said Reginald and his men were dangerous. Surely they’d seen her enter his room and leave half dragging, half pulling his blanket-wrapped body under the cover of early dawn. Percy’s little two-wheeled cart she’d fashioned had been invaluable, the apparatus small enough to navigate with only minimal difficulty down the stairs.

  Why the hell had these mysterious men hired her to do a job they could do themselves?

  And why so much coin to do the job?

  It didn’t make sense no matter how many times her mind ticked over it.

  Her gaze slid to the heap of blanket once more.

  It was Ian. Something about him, something valuable.

  He certainly was heavy. If she hadn’t had Percy’s tool, she would never have gotten him out of that inn without waking every person within.

  His clothes were incredibly fine. The linen of his léine had been impossibly soft beneath her fingertips and the wool of his kilt thick and well made. The remaining items she’d gathered from his room and now held in the pack tied to her back had all been of high quality as well.

  She’d glanced briefly through Ian’s bag. There was a considerable amount of coin within, but nothing to indicate his identity. Aside from a clean léine and another length of plaid, he had not much else. His sword was exceptional. A boar’s head was etched into the hilt, but then, he had said he was a Campbell.

  Were these items stolen, or had they always belonged to him?

  The hollow wooden bump of an empty cart going over the thin cold air of the forest met her ear
s, and the tension around her heart eased somewhat. They were coming.

  She crouched beside the man who lay in the arms of death and flicked aside the blanket. Ian’s face was relaxed in the soft light of an early day. Small creases showed on his skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth, evidence of a man who smiled often. No doubt at his own jests.

  He was handsome though. She would grudgingly admit that. Though only to herself. His arrogance needed no polishing.

  The cart was close now. Sylvi replaced the blanket, rose, and turned to face the same man she’d spoken with initially when securing the assassination. The man Ian had told her was named Gregor.

  “I knew I could count on ye.” The Gaelic rasped from his throat, deep and gravelly.

  There’d been something about him when she first met him, his voice, his face. Something. Now that she knew he was with Reginald, it nipped at her awareness with more insistence.

  Two other men stood several feet behind him with the cart, all men with intact ears from what she could tell.

  Reginald was not there. But she would find him.

  “I see ye made quick work of his fine things.” Gregor nodded at Ian’s sword at her side.

  Sylvi narrowed her eyes in reply.

  The light of a new day fell on the world with vivid golds and reds, while turning the world into a seemingly dreamlike place. It left the man’s face darkened and hard to see. But his voice.

  What was it about his voice?

  He strode past her to where Ian lay and nudged the blanket aside with the toe of his boot. He regarded Ian for a long moment, then heaved a kick into the prone man’s side. Ian’s body rolled back slightly with the impact, but he did not make any sound. Sylvi clenched her teeth at the brutal impact and hoped he could not feel it beneath the poison’s sleep.

  “He’s already dead,” she ground out in Gaelic.

  “No’ by my decision.” Gregor spit on the ground. “I wanted to enjoy him a little more before he died.” He motioned for the other men to come forward.

  They did as they were bade, grabbing Ian’s bulk, thankfully keeping him wrapped in the blanket, and tossing him into the back of the cart as if he were a sack of flour. Sylvi turned toward Gregor rather than see the painful thwack she could not help but hear.